Dying Is One Of The Few Things

Some Guy Hit My Fender, And I Told Him, 'be Fruitful And Multiply,' But Not In Those Words.

Our Love, Our Love Will Last Forever. It's Forever But It Just Doesn't Work. That's Why It Will Always Be Romantic Because It Can Not Be Complete.

I Call That Mind Free Which Jealously Guards Its Intellectual Rights And Powers, Which Calls No Man Master, Which Does Not Content Itself With A Passive Or Hereditary Faith, [and] Receives New Truth As An Angel From Heaven.

Men Would Make Love With Any Number Of Women ... Even Total Strangers, While Females Were Selective. They Were Catering To The Demands Of One Small Egg. While Males Had Millions Of Frantic Sperms Screaming: "let Us Out, Let Us Out!".

If I Just Got Up In The Morning And Had No Place To Go And Was Retired Or Something, I Would Be Sitting There And Be Thinking, "gee, What Is The Purpose Of Life? Why Are We All Finite? Why Do We Get Old And Die? Is There Nothing Out There? Why Is It So Tragic? Why Do Our Loved Ones Perish? Why Do We Generate?" Who Wants To Think About That Stuff?